


The Unorthodox Option

by cupiscent



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed, Strippers & Strip Clubs, grope me for the cover story, job-related showering together, kissing as cover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupiscent/pseuds/cupiscent
Summary: He recruits Neil fine, but then he doesn't know how they go from there to where they were. Weirdly, it seems like the answer is going to involve Neil pretending (very convincingly) to be a stripper, and a whole can of related worms.(OR: "Let's be honest, he just doesn't want to do it because the plan is to send him and Neil deep undercover on an isolated island as a violent thug and the stripper he's been gifted for the weekend. He doesn't want to to it because it starts with Neil shimmying out of spangled trousers on stage again, and only gets worse...")
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 96





	The Unorthodox Option

It's not like it's the first time someone has died—with him, on his team, instead of him, so that the mission objectives can be achieved. He always assumed that one day it would be his turn, and then it was, and yet also very much wasn't. He doesn't know why this is bothering him so much. Doesn't know why he wakes up in the middle of the night to _this_ , of all things. Why he'll catch a glimpse of something that turns his head and leaves him waterlogged with memory.

Except that there's no getting away from it. Time doesn't work that way anymore. He's on a loop right back to it happening again.

Except that this is the first time someone has died when he, himself, despite knowing exactly how it would end, was the one doing the recruiting.

It's not that big a difference, really. He's always been good at compartmentalising, rationalising, pulling off the mental gymnastics required to look a desperate mother straight in the eye and tell her a lie that will put her in danger, but move the mission forward. He can try his best to mitigate the damage, but he'll do it in the first place. And what's happened has happened. He's already done it.

Helps that when the moment comes, they're desperate.

"Four candidates," says the woman he knows only as Hayat (for now; she'll be killed when someone blows up these offices in three years' time and the more time he spends with her effortless analytical mind, the more distraught he is about that; he may have made Tenet happen, but she made it work) and she lays down the files.

He doesn't bother looking at them. He never trusts his own decisions; he recruits the people he already knows he will, and trusts in _their_ decisions. "Who do you recommend?"

"Not that simple." She taps fluorescent yellow fingernails against the folders. "We've got lines on three excellent agents—Mossad, GDSE, one grey-hat—but…" She trails off, lips pursed.

"But," he prompts. Glances up from the reports.

She looks down at those reports, pointedly. "But we've lost five excellent agents this year alone. What we're asking them to do isn't the same as they were rigorously trained for, and the discrepancy is telling. So the fourth—" She separated out one file. "—is a more unorthodox option."

She's entirely right, and he doesn't know that unorthodox is the answer at all; he doesn't know what _is_. The uncertainty has his attention grabbing for everything all at once, flicking through all the paperwork on his desk like the secret's hidden in here like Waldo. "How unorthodox?"

Rote question, so he's caught out when she says, "Civilian, but a compatible skillset." Which means _criminal_. "Graduate degree in physics. Widespread and varied experience. I thought the flexibility might—" She stops dead, lifting one perfect eyebrow until it almost disappears beneath her headscarf, as though the hand he's holding out for the file is astonishing.

He flicks it open only long enough to catch a glimpse of the photo. A cramp stabs through his chest, like he suddenly sprinted a marathon. Neil looks so _young_. He slams the file shut again.

How can he do this, knowing how it will end? How can he _not_ do this, knowing how it will end? What does it matter? He knows how it will end.

"Set up the approach," he says. "I'll do it myself."

*

It goes fine. Neil isn't the first candidate he's recruited. Not even the twenty-first. They've lost five excellent agents this year alone. He knew this was going to happen; has travelled briskly through the periods when it was the unfortunate rough history of the organisation's early years. He knows what's going to happen here. He recruits Neil all the same, spinning out just the right blend of tantalising mystery and wild geekery. Leaves him in the lab with the floppy-haired Spaniard they call Jorge, overlapping wild conjecture as fast as they can draw breath.

Jorge has set up a brilliant and thorough system, that Laura will eventually inherit a fraction of, after Jorge himself defects to _Australia_ , of all places, running with a double handful of unconscionable secrets he intends to sell for a ludicrous amount of money, and they have to hunt him down and kill him before he even gets to set foot on any of those beautiful beaches. What's happened has happened.

*

It doesn't get any better than fine. He treats Neil like any other recruit—and then like any other recruit who's doing well at the actual training and genuinely terribly at maintaining anything like discipline. He loiters outside one of the sessions, waiting to have a word, and nearly misses the chance when _Wheeler_ comes filing out—he doesn't remember recruiting her and doesn't know if that means it hasn't happened yet or he set someone else to do it.

Just manages to catch Neil by the elbow. "A word?"

The room is like any other classroom anywhere. There's still a diagram on the whiteboard that probably makes more sense to Neil than it does to him. Neil props against the wall like a mile and a half of insouciance and doesn't help matters by smirking and saying, "This feels ominously like being called into the headmaster's office. Am I about to be caned?"

Neil's still so young, though inversions have already started to leave their mark. He's never been sure precisely how stepping backward through time fucks with your body's natural aging, but it clearly does. He's no longer sure how long Neil knew him before he knew Neil; he started out thinking he had a clear timeline and only needed to fit the pieces in place like a jigsaw. _He_ was so young, back then.

"You need to start taking this a little more seriously," he says.

"I take this extremely seriously," Neil says, despite the unshifting smirk.

He says, "Drinking games with inverted vodka?"

He wants to laugh at Neil's wince. He doesn't, but it's remarkably close. "Not my finest idea," Neil admits. "But we'd all been told we had three clear days."

That was hardly the only incident. "Neil—"

"You don't want a good little soldier." Neil's still leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, hands in pockets, but now there's a glint in eye, a tension in shoulders, a focus to face. "If you did, you wouldn't have sidled up to _me_."

Not much he can say to that except, "I didn't sidle."

Neil grins; it's fucking devastating. Goes through him like a solid spear of sunlit memory. "Consider me chastened." A shrug, with mouth as well as shoulders. "What now? Is there positive reinforcement too? Shall we go for a drink? Right-way-round liquor only, I promise."

And he actually hesitates. Is this how it happens? Is this how they start on the path that ends with their steps in sync, hands in complement, plans coming together? (That ends with Neil dead at his feet?)

But he can't _drink with a recruit_. There's already enough scuttlebutt sizzling up and down the ranks about when he's from and what he knows. Neil doesn't deserve to get caught up in that while still trying—for all the cocky posturing—to figure out what the hell is going on.

He can't trust his own decisions. He's nothing like objective on this. He _misses_ Neil, for all the asshole is standing right there. They barely knew each other anyway. _He_ barely knew Neil, at least.

"You're late for medical," he says instead.

*

But he doesn't know how they _do_ get there. Neil's flexibility—his creativity, his wild lunacy and willingness to attempt the sort of low-percentage nonsense that organisations worked hard to train out of their recruits— _does_ come in handy, but the commendations and mild reproofs, formal and informal, aren't the stuff that forges a bond. Even if Neil grins, or winks, or even _salutes_ every single time, it's just what everyone gets. He's heard Hayat exclaim about it. She made the words _blithe cheek_ sound both scandalous and admirable.

What's happened has happened, right? Faith in the workings of the world. He couldn't miss out on it. He's only here because it happened. He has far more important things to worry about, anyway. A massive temporal pincer movement to set up. There are so many moving parts in his head that some nights he can hardly sleep for the churning of the cogs. Neil's only one of them. Not the only one that keeps him awake. Not the only one that jerks him out of dreams he can't remember with his heart racing.

It's not important. He doesn't know how they get there, but they do. It will be fine.

And then the message arrives.

*

" _In deep play_ ," Hayat reads from the phone screen. " _Need clean back-up_. And there's a timestamp for contact and the details of a hotel booking attached. A Mr John Smith." Her mouth thinned. "Which is not really up to Neil's usual level of creativity, but the alias is established to a suitable level. Frankly I'm a little concerned that he's managed to get himself into such trouble that he's actually _asking_ for—"

"I'll go." He tried to wait until she finished talking, but impatience wins out. Now she's looking at him; he gives a half smile. "I'm not letting him drag someone else into a wild mess."

She tilts her head. "Regrets? I'm the one brought you the file." Though in the keen slant of her gaze is the other half of what she's weighing—that he's the one who, uncharacteristically, made the call himself.

He shakes his head. "You were right. He's what we need. So I'm not going to let him founder on—" He frowns. "What's he even doing?" He's almost certainly been told already, but it hadn't been important enough to stick.

"Neutralising Caspar Denton," Hayat provides easily. "He seemed the best fit. If you're going that far back, I'll have you set up with a return itinerary. Give us two days."

He nods absently, though she's not waiting for it, already striding out. Ready to set him up with other tasks or safe places to wait out the seven months between now and when a minor organised crime figure stumbled over a corner of Tenet's still-exposed foundations and started making things awkward before abruptly walking into an Interpol sting.

Seven months. He sighs, and wishes—not for the first time—that there were some way to jump through time, rather than merely walking backward.

*

The hotel's five-star (and he's still not really used to that, though he definitely notices the difference on the rare occasions he gets a chance to decide he doesn't need it this time) and the reservation is all in order, of course Mr Smith, and this has been left for you.

 _This_ is a creamy parchment envelope, small enough to fit in his palm, and inside it, a business card, except it's made of _metal_ , embossed with the name _Hades_. An address is printed in a neat line of text at one end. He turns it over in his fingers while the desk clerk pretends—very adroitly; this is an excellent hotel—that she wasn't watching.

There's only an hour until the contact timestamp, so he goes straight there. The foyer is as tasteful and sparse as a private club, or an extremely expensive psychologist. The severe daughter of a librarian fantasy and a top-tier executive assistant looks up from behind a mahogany desk and says, without a smile, "Good evening, do you have an appointment?"

"I have this." He flashes the metal card between two fingers.

She nods, and rises to open the door. "Welcome to Hades." There's a carpeted staircase with a gleaming marble banister leading, of course, down. 

Music slides up to meet him descending; the sort of jazz that insinuates and flirts, all shimmying trumpet meets sly piano. He turns a final landing and a cavernous, shadowy room opens up in front of him, cozy tables tucked amidst potted palms and an empty stage at the far end of the room, the footlights glowing like embers.

 _Private club_ remains his leading option. There's nothing in the files on Denton—that he's spent seven months of backwards-travelling going over in fine detail—that links to this place. He wasn't a member of a club called Hades, not that they knew of, and this property wasn't in his portfolio at the time of his arrest.

The waitress who meets him at the bottom of the stairs is wearing five-inch platform heels and an honest-to-God little French maid dress, complete with frilly apron. Hers are _outstanding_ legs, but if this is some sort of strange prank, he is going to murder Neil early.

"You're just in time for the next performance." Her smile is a sly thing. "Table near the stage?"

"Why not?" he returns easily.

She wasn't kidding about being just in time; the lights dim as he's settling into the velvet-plush armchair. He has to repeat his drink order louder over an introductory drum-roll. The curtain sweeps up, and a sharp spotlight comes up behind a silhouette—male, tailored, cane cocked over shoulder and trilby at a jaunty angle. A trumpet brays; someone in the back of the room wolf-whistles.

He realises, abruptly, just what sort of private club this is.

The music leaps like a wolf; the lights swing wild and coloured; the silhouette turns and the guy strides— _struts_ —down the stage. There's a swing in those pinstripe-suited hips, challenge in the way the feet are planted, the cane brought down between them, long fingers wrapped around the polished handle of it. Beneath the rim of the trilby, the guy has a grin wicked as sin.

He recognises it a bare moment before Neil tosses his head back—knocks the hat clean off—and throws himself into the music. Swaggers with the bass, smirk curving like the trombone's sliding insinuation, flicks open a coat button with each syncopated drum beat, until Neil shucks the whole coat in one dramatic motion. The shirtfront is revealed as nothing but a front; the spotlight gilds Neil's naked back, glistening with oil—and _glitter_?

More whistles from the crowd. He can barely think over the white noise in his head. Neil's hips roll. It's lewd. It's supposed to be. He's supposed to want those hips in his hands, supposed to wonder what that arch of Neil's neck might taste like.

He's not supposed to at all. Neil's been his partner and one day might be again; that's what he's wanted.

Isn't it?

Neil whips the belt out of its trouser loops. Drapes it around his neck and grips both ends, flexing glitter-oiled arms. Neil's smile kinks even wickeder at another wolf-whistle from the crowd. The belt's been made special for this act, because Neil can buckle it up again like a collar, tug on the end like it's a leash.

He's breathing hard as though he's just woken from dreams with Neil's name on his lips. He's no longer sure that those dreams were about the end, that the racing of his heart was panic and denial. He wants to flee back up those stairs, but he doesn't run, and anyway, it'd draw far too much attention. Convenient excuses, when his gaze is fixed like everyone else's to the teasing inch of additional skin now appearing as Neil hooks thumbs into trousers.

It turns out Neil's wearing tight black boxer briefs beneath, and it's both a relief and a frustration. Neil performs a variety of salaciously suggestive acts with the cane, and _that_ 's a heady mix of hilarious and arousing.

And then finally— _finally_ —the music crashes through its finale, and winds down. Neil takes a bow, opens arms wide for applause—gets it, as the house lights start to come up a bit more—and does a final scan of the crowd, sighting along the cane like taking aim.

Sees _him_ , and for a moment, Neil's showy smile flashes into a genuine grin, bright and beautiful.

"Fuck," someone gulps behind him, and he couldn't agree more. Neil's pleased to see him, and it's still echoing inside him even after the stage is empty and the crowd is humming back into conversation.

The waitress comes back with the fanciest damn glass of diet coke he's ever seen—lemon peel and cherry garnish and everything—and a pleasant smile. "Enjoy the performance?" she asks, and the lack of innuendo is impressive all by itself.

"Yes," he says, which is not anything like a lie. "Is it possible to arrange a more private chat?"

Her smile widens. "He's a charming conversationalist. I'll add your name to his list."

She steps away briskly enough, so probably he wasn't supposed to add a tip to that request. The name will be sufficient. Neil _picked_ the name. He drinks his diet coke, and tries to wait patiently, while the crowd bubbles and tinkles, and the music slinks back as a low and demure reminder of what just happened.

When a figure snags his attention, it's _not_ Neil. But after seven months going over the file, he feels like he almost knows Caspar Denton better. Except the file didn't know he had a connection to this place. What else don't they know? Why has Neil called him in?

Denton is handsome in the way money can buy, styling making up for a face too sharp and pale, hair too fine and blond, a build that wanted to be scrawny before it got bullied into shape by personal trainers. He watches the guy gladhanding the guests, exchanging curt words with bartenders and security, tipping a smile to the band pianist.

Either the file was wrong—which he doesn't think can be possible—or Caspar Denton's going to lose ownership of this place sometime between now and that imminent Interpol arrest. Interesting.

He's so busy watching that Neil takes him by surprise, sliding into the other chair at the table. "I see you've spotted our friend."

It's not just the voice that sends a thrill down his spine, it's the tone of it—the amusement, the invitation to be inside the joke. The memory of that flash of genuine smile. He turns and looks at Neil, who's still smiling easily. Pleased to see him. This suit's a more generic affair, in dark charcoal. There's a smear of glitter on the shirt's open collar.

He's really been hoping that off the stage, Neil would stop looking so goddamn delicious.

Neil's smile widens. "I really wasn't expecting you, but I'm not complaining. You'll be perfect for what I have in mind."

Business is safer. "Which is?"

"Standard misdirection." Neil shrugs, careless; business is _easy_. "Watching me when they should be watching you. Vice versa. Heads up."

The waitress, back again with her easy smile and easier legs. He's out of sorts with impatience; blame that for how he just about snaps, "He'll have a vodka tonic, on my tab."

When he looks back, Neil's giving him a funny look. Has he had a chance to learn that drink order yet? Breeze past it. "This isn't a good place to get into the details."

"No," Neil agrees. "City library, ancient religions, quarter of ten tomorrow, yeah?" With a hooked smile, adds: "Though you have now bought me for the length of a drink."

Best not to dwell on the sly promise of that smile, especially matched with the way Neil's sprawling in the chair. It's all part of the show—a double show, not that anyone else knows. "You're very comfortable with this," he says, and since the words are out, might as well lean into them. Gesture to the stage. "Comfortable up there."

That earns him another funny look, a frown creasing Neil's forehead. "I—" A little huff of laughter. "This is how I paid my way through grad school. Isn't that in my file?" Not the time to admit he still hasn't read the official file; he's holding out hope he'll get a chance to hear it all from the source. Neil shrugs without needing an answer. "When I realised our friend did a lot of his work out of this place, I assumed it was why I got this gig. Thanks love." Neil's smile turns briefly to megawatt glitter as the waitress hands off a drink on her way past. That smile—it's gorgeous, and charming, and a reasonable facsimile of genuine, but it isn't the one _he_ got earlier, when he was recognised from the stage.

What the fuck is _wrong_ with him? He wants to get out of here, have a chance to get his head back in the game. Talk business tomorrow. But he's bought Neil for the duration of the drink. Can't just leave.

Neil sips, catches a stray droplet with a swipe of tongue across bottom lip, and leans in. "Listen. We should cover some basics. Just in case you get to make contact tonight—might do, Denton loves to work the crowd and that pass I swiped for you is VIP."

He leans in too—unconscious mirroring, matching the story they're telling here. "You said he does business out of here? It isn't on his asset list."

"Not technically his." Neil's gaze is lazy—toying with the drink, flicking little glances up. Could be magnificent flirting, but he knows Neil's actually keeping Denton in view. "A woman owns it, not sure what the deal is there, but he rules here like he's king. None of the drug or money-laundering business passes through here, but he's around on the regular."

"Deals being done?" he asks.

Neil wrinkles his nose. "More like networking. The deals _are_ being done, but this—" A finger twirl indicates their surroundings. "—is more like foreplay. I think we can get in on the doing, but that's where I need the backup."

This seems like a distraction from the reason they sent Neil in the first place. "Do we _need_ to?" he asks gently, and gets himself a brief frown. This isn't the place to get into details, but Neil doesn't appreciate the suggestion he's not on the task. Fine. "So who's he doing these deals with?" Because that, clearly, is his role—someone to do business with.

Neil gives a little nod—unnecessary confirmation—with a little smile—even less necessary approbation. "Very well dressed but otherwise nondescript people who—well." Neil's smile widened. "Who carry themselves like you do."

"How do I carry myself?" He's not _curious_ , it's not about hearing Neil's opinion of him, it's just getting the information. Really.

"Like you're constantly assessing but not too worried because there's no situation you can't get yourself out of." Neil gives him a onceover that probably wouldn't be salacious in any other setting. "Like you're carrying, even when you aren't."

People like him. People of violence. He's not sure if he's disappointed or flattered. It's probably only the truth. He chose the wrong profession for dying old. He manages a smile of his own. "So be myself, is what you're saying."

Neil smiles back. Sprawls even more, one ankle nudging against his foot. "Play to your strengths," Neil suggests, and lifts the depleted vodka tonic, downing the last of it in a little toast. Now that smile slides back toward the showman's smirk. "See you tomorrow."

He leans back, as Neil stands and saunters away without a backward glance. It's just in character to linger over watching the departure, right? He's here, in this club, buying time in increments of one drink's worth. It's only now that he realises there are probably larger buys. Private rooms. Private dances.

It sounds like a magnificently terrible idea. The library will be far better.

Denton's still busy at another table, pouring champagne for a hubbub of glamorous folk, when he goes to settle his tab and leave. He can't spot Neil. He doesn't look that hard. 

The cashier is down the quiet end of the bar, made even more discreet by more potted greenery. She's older—strands of silver in her black chignon—but still beautiful. A gilded namebadge reads "Mme Q". She smiles like the Mona Lisa. "Only a brief visit with us tonight, Mr Smith?"

He wonders if they personalise the service for everyone, or only those who flash the metal cards of the VIP list upon arrival. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he says.

"We'll look forward to seeing you again, then," Mme Q says, as she slides an account across the bar on a little silver tray. "If you don't mind me asking, to whom do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

There's just enough steel in her voice to tip the scales on the calculations he's running in his head. Business being done with violent people here, but while Denton did the business, technically the premises were owned by a woman.

"A colleague," he answers, and gives her a brief look, a wry little smile. "Discretion's vital in my line of work."

"As in mine." She matches his smile, and repeats, "We look forward to seeing you again."

*

"Yes, that's her," Neil confirms, leaning against a shelf of ancient religion books the next morning. "Far as I can tell, she never gets done for any—" The words disappear into a jaw-cracking yawn; Neil winces and swigs again from a half-quart cup of coffee. "Sorry. Later than I expected last night. One of the others got tied up with a private dance and I had to hit the stage again and then it took until past three to work through the list."

He frowns. "You have a drink with everyone who puts their name down."

"At least." Neil's smile is smeared with fatigue. "They don't usually ply me with hard liquor, of course."

"Sorry for not knowing the strip club etiquette." Any actual irritation he feels evaporates in the face of Neil's laughter, which loops into another yawn. "Christ, do you want to sit down?"

"No." Neil knuckles at an eye. "No, I'll fall asleep. I can do this."

The library is _not_ better; Neil's tousled and bleary and crumpled and simultaneously the man he jumped (will jump) off a building with _and_ the man whose shoulder blade he wanted to lick clean of sweat and glitter. It's all overlapping in his head: how much he's missed Neil, and how very tangible Neil is. Not gone; right here.

He clears his throat. "Standard misdirection, you said."

"Yes." Neil points around his coffee. "Yes. Right. What we want here, yeah, is to make sure anything Denton has stays lost when he gets nabbed. Doesn't stay at large, and _doesn't_ get filed away with Interpol."

It's a relief to concentrate on the job. "Do we know what he has found? You were going to look into that on the way back." _That_ file, at least, he's read.

Neil wrinkles his nose. "Went through all the arresting paperwork, even the stuff that never made the official files. Nothing there that leaps out. Which says to me that I—we—" He flashes a smile. "—clean it out before he gets nicked. The drugs and money operations are slippery by their sheer flexibility, so I don't think he's got anything stashed in that arm of the business, which means—"

"It's in this arm." He nods. "You've gone over the club, I assume." 

"Every inch," Neil confirms. "Didn't think it likely, since the club doesn't show in the files, but there _is_ a secondary evidence location referenced, and I hear thoroughness is a virtue." Even bleary, he's still a little smartass. "Finally got into the safe last week, and I would love to know how Madame Q got hold of some of the jewels she has in there, but nothing that spoke to our particular beat."

He could follow along. "So where is this secondary evidence location, and where do these other deals go down?" They were likely to be one and the same.

The satisfaction in Neil's smile was made lazy by weariness. "That's where things get a bit tricky. He has a private island."

"A what?" He starts to reconfigure his ideas of what—and who—they're dealing with. Denton hadn't seemed like a big enough fish in any pond to have that sort of resource to hand, and if they were so far wrong about him—

Neil waves a hand. "No, not _his_. Access to? Timeshare in?" A grin at that ridiculous concept; Neil knuckles at his eye again, but seems clearer with each swig of coffee. "He definitely has secure storage there, and likes to take his special friends off there for deal-making—along with _their_ special friends."

It takes him a moment to catch up with that one. "Ah. Thus back-up."

"Much easier to investigate without a punter who thinks I'm there as his toy." Neil lifts an eyebrow over the coffee cup.

Now is absolutely not the time to think about how differently this may have gone. How Neil might have taken the risk. How someone else might have got this job. Still, it makes him gruff. "That leaves both of us stuck on this guy's private island."

"And if I were stranded with anyone else, I might be worried." Neil's smile is almost wicked again.

"Is that supposed to be flattery?" He doesn't think he's doing well at pretending not to be amused. He can't tell if his reluctance is warranted. "Are there any other options?"

"What, don't you want to go on a romantic island getaway with me?" Neil's patently false pout is undermined by a genuine sigh of distress when the coffee cup is revealed to be empty.

He tries to ignore all of that. "Is Denton open to a more oblique approach?"

Neil leans back against the shelf. "If you're suggesting seduction, I already sounded that out and I suspect he's straight as an arrow." A frown. "Unless you think you might be more his taste than I am?"

He genuinely hates this entire conversation. "I'm so glad I came back seven months for this."

Neil smiles that devastating smile—carelessly, guilelessly, genuinely pleased with him. "It's going to be fun. Let's walk, and I'll take you through it all."

*

Neil's plans hold together; that's been a strength all the instructors and observers have noted. Thorough creativity, just the right degree of flexibility, and a tendency to view anything and everything in the world like it's the pick for a particular sort of lock. He wonders what that's like; how the world looks from there. Knows that he, himself, tends to just slice through the knot, clean and efficient, rather than invest in teasing it unravelled in his hands.

They could try it his way. Find the island, get a team, make a precision strike. But there's not a lot of time, now, between doing that and the point where Denton is arrested by Interpol, extradited to Belgium, killed in a prison hit arranged by disgruntled former associates. They haven't had a problem with Interpol sniffing around, therefore they won't, but there's no point making a mess that needs cleaning up. So why not try the unorthodox option?

Let's be honest, he just doesn't want to do it because the plan is to send him and Neil deep undercover on an isolated island as a violent thug and the stripper he's been gifted for the weekend. He doesn't want to to it because it _starts_ with Neil shimmying out of spangled trousers on stage again, and only gets worse with Neil leaning across the back of his chair, thumb hooked in his collar and breath tickling his ear as Neil watches Denton across the club floor, saying, "He's put the guestlist together already; the others have been talking about who's going along. John Smith's exactly the right sort—" Neil should know, having revealed he wasn't created, but rather hijacked and tailored to the purpose; swears vigorously that there won't be any overlap problem, and frankly he doesn't want to know how Neil's so sure about that. "But the trip's only four days away. You're going to have to really catch his attention."

Doesn't want to do it, because the options at this point for _catching attention_ are starting a fight—delicate business to get just right—or saying, "Then get in my lap."

"What?" But Neil's already in motion, slithering feet-first across as he shifts carefully back from the table to make more room.

It's surreptitious—without either of them suggesting it—but hardly graceful; Neil's elbow clips the tables, spills their drinks a little. "Thought you were supposed to be stealthy," he mutters.

"Shut _up_ ," Neil hisses.

And then they're both laughing—giggling, really, half stifled to avoid attention until they want it—because this is ridiculous. Neil tries to snake an arm around his shoulders without tipping off his lap. He lays a steadying hand in the small of Neil's back, sliding up beneath the suit jacket. Sets the other on Neil's knees. Slouches a little more, and braces his feet, and together they find equilibrium.

"So what are the rules?" he asks, quiet in the diminished distance between them. Neil doesn't quite smell like he used to (like he will). Same sweat, different cologne. He hadn't realised he'd taken any notice. Neil's half leaning against him. This was still better than the other option, he reminds himself.

"No private engagements on the main floor," Neil says, just as quiet. "In the private rooms, we get to set our own rules—and price lists."

A thought gives him pause. "Am I going to be getting his attention or just getting you in trouble?"

He catches the edge of a smile as Neil turns away, finishing the vodka-tonic and setting the glass back in its little spilled puddle. "Oh no, _my_ job is keeping you happy and spending. Handsy is a triumph, go for it. But it lowers the tone." Neil rounds out the words, sounding downright snooty.

He grins—hides it in Neil's shoulder, because this isn't exactly the character he's building here—and that's where he is when Neil says, "Whoops, incoming."

He already has a hand on Neil's knee. It's easy to slide his palm up, curve his fingers down around Neil's inner thigh. He can feel the twitch of the muscle, Neil's kneejerk (literally) reaction to close off access to this vulnerable area, but a moment later Neil's sprawling even more, legs lolling apart. It's supposed to look like a wanton invitation; he trails his fingertips higher up the inseam of Neil's cheap suit trousers. And stops.

Neil whines. Not loudly. It's barely a sound at all, not one he can hear over the ambient music, the chatter, the laughter around them. But his nose is pressed against the side of Neil's throat. He can feel the vibration of it. Before he's even thought about it, he's shifted just enough to fasten his mouth over it.

Neil's head tips back. The gasp buzzes against his tongue. He has to smooth his other hand further up Neil's back, hold more firmly to keep them balanced here. He can feel the twist of Neil's fingers in the back of his collar as his shirt pulls tight. Neil tastes almost bitter with sweat and oil and body glitter; stubble scrapes at his nose as he drags teeth against skin.

"Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen." The voice is crisp and cutting, Nordic consonants standing out in a trans-Atlantic muddle. Caspar Denton, the one and only.

Neil shifts on his lap, knees twitching together, and it's not any effort at all to look pissed as he drags hand and mouth away. As he glares up at Denton, and growls, "What is it?" Neil shifts again, weight tipping toward sliding off, and he grips his thigh tighter. Holds on, while meeting Denton's bland grey gaze and lifting an eyebrow. Making a point.

Denton just looks amused. "Perhaps Nigel—" _Nigel?_ "—can join you in a private room later in the evening. For now, he's needed elsewhere. Let me make you a consolation offer."

He keeps glowering. "You're not my type."

Denton laughs. "Oh, Mr Smith, I rather think I might be." Lifts slim and manicured hands, and for a moment he's awfully sure that those fingers are going to nest, that the bastard's going to mention _tenet_. But no, Denton just adjusts his shirt cuff, an action that displays both an extremely and subtly expensive watch, and the edge of what is clearly a prison tattoo.

He takes his cues, and lifts his hands. Lets Neil slide off his lap with considerably more grace than was displayed getting on in the first place. Doesn't have to feign amusement at the bitchy look Neil shoots Denton before stalking off across the club floor.

Denton's amused as well, moving the other chair back around the table before sitting down. "You've made an impression on him."

"I was certainly about to," he rejoins, but he lets a little of the pique fall away. "What is it you want, then?"

Denton keeps smiling, but there's no emotion behind it, like some sort of reptile whose face just makes that shape. "I was rather going to ask you that question, Mr Smith. Or did your colleague merely recommend Hades for the entertainment?" An illustrative sidelong glance, at a passing waiter wearing black-sequined shorts, a scarlet bow-tie, and nothing else. "If so," Denton continues, "please don't let me detain you any longer."

He considers Denton for a long, steady moment. Wishes they knew more about what this side game really was, but they know enough. Violent people, an organised crime figure… deductions could be made. "I'm not looking for a place," he says. Cocks an eyebrow. "I like being freelance."

"I like you freelance too," Denton shoots back, in a way that might be flirtation if it weren't utterly bloodless. "I've looked into your background. Your portfolio is impressive." Thanks to the real John Smith, and Neil's polishing skills. "There may be opportunities I can help you gain access to. But here is—" An airily dismissive hand waves. "Not conducive. Are you free for lunch on Sunday?"

"Sure," he says, as though he doesn't care one way or another. "But I fly out that evening, so if you actually want to talk _business_ …" He trails off, and shrugs. Neil's advice: _Dangle yourself like bait_. He can picture the smirk that went with the words. They don't have time for a long con on this. It's Monday, and Denton will be clapped in handcuffs on Saturday evening.

So he sits, runs a lazy eye over the crowd like he doesn't care and certainly isn't keeping watch on Denton from the corner of his eye. Hopes like hell that Neil's read this man right.

And then Denton says, "I don't usually like to kiss on the first date, but perhaps I should make an exception. I have an island. There are, of course, strict rules, but also some perks. Perhaps Nigel could come along as well."

He drinks to quell the urge to smile. They're in.

*

"Nigel?" he asks quietly, as they sit in the plush lounge, waiting for the private jet to be ready. They're both looking over their fellow guests, making assessments, matching faces to the scant research Neil was able to scrape together. A little light conversation covers a multitude of sins, in what might be very suspicious company.

Neil smirks. "You don't strip under your real name. It's not even about privacy, it's—" A wave of the hand that isn't holding a sweating glass of vodka tonic. "Putting on the costume. When you have nothing else on, you have the name. That woman by the window—" Neil tilts, not towards her but the other way, towards him, shaking hair out of eyes. "If she's in big business, so am I."

He considers her—perfect pinstripe and blow-waved hair, but he sees exactly what Neil sees in the way she holds her balance, and the fact she's watching the group as closely and surreptitiously as they are. Even the way she's barely exchanged three words with her own _special friend_ , who's lithe and lively and laughing with another of the strippers. "But that's what the file says," he notes from behind his coffee cup.

Neil sniggers, and slouches a little more in the chair. "Because the file is _never_ wrong," says the man who ensured _their_ files were impenetrably wrong. John Smith is allegedly a corporate troubleshooter. He asked exactly how Neil had known this guy, and got nothing but a grin in response.

He flicks his gaze over the rest of the group; four pinstriped boredoms who really _are_ big business, and then the others. There are two corporate spies—they've exchanged respectful nods already—and a trio of multinational trust-fund types who clearly know each over long and complicated histories. Neil's—or Nigel's—colleagues flit amongst them like butterflies. There must be some sort of pattern here. He's only seeing the edges of it now, but it will come into focus. It's not the point, of course. The only real question is whether it will matter, before they can find and open the safe, get their errant evidence, and get out of here.

"Come on." Neil lays a hand on his knee, stretches over him to set the empty glass on the table. "They're ready for boarding."

*

Hades travels with them, in bared skin and knowing smiles and a general air of distraction. One of the trust-fund types spends the whole flight with a pert little blonde sitting across his lap, talking about big game fishing while she plays Candy Crush on her phone. Another goes for a bathroom break and takes a spectacularly tall redhead along.

He can't help wondering how on earth there could be room for her to manage anything genuinely interesting, even in a private airplane bathroom.

"Regulars," Neil murmurs from beside him, eyes a bare glitter beneath near-closed lids. "Cherry gave me a lot of interesting pointers for this trip."

He's listening, but he's also still watching the others, noting who's talking to whom, and how. Who's brought laptops. Whose scars are on display when they roll up shirtsleeves. "Oh?"

"Same rules as always: give them just enough to make them desperate for more." Neil's smile is lazy as a cat. A stretch knocks fingers against his knee. "Wake me up if something important happens."

How many flights did they do like this—Neil boneless, him alert? The memories of that frantic time have seeped each into the other, a montage of airports and cafes and hotel rooms, shot through with desperation and confusion.

If they'd had more time, more space to breathe, would he have found himself in a moment like this? Watching Neil sleep, really _looking_ , at the fine lines of brow and jaw and mouth. Neil's hair was—will be—longer then. This youthful brashness will have tempered to a slippery confidence. Different flavours, still beautiful.

If they'd had more time, a chance to stop and look, would he have _wanted_ like this?

He does his best not to disturb Neil when he slips out of his seat. Goes to join the trust-fund trio in their fishing talk. He's never so much as cast a line, but he's had conversations like these—fishing, golfing, supercar racing—so many times, no one would ever know.

*

The island is a tropical idyll, the sprawling house tucked into lush gardens. They're served fresh seafood for dinner, at a long table next to an infinity pool overlooking a perfect beach beyond which the sun is setting. Sometimes these lifestyles just make him weary with jealousy.

Their suite is luxurious, with a balcony over the pool and a shower with four different water delivery options. Bag dropped in the middle of the spacious sitting area, Neil turns around with hands on hips, pulls a face, and leans over to tuck in beside his ear, whispering words he can almost feel more than hear: "I'll take the bedroom if you take out here?"

Of course they can't possibly be lucky enough that Denton is relying on "Nigel" to report back to him; Neil turns up a bug plastered into the decorative ceiling of the bedroom, and while he can't find anything definitive in the sitting area, the electronics of the entertainment system provide a whole host of options. Neil gestures dubiously toward the balcony, but he shakes his head, and shucks his coat as he heads for the bathroom.

Each of those options on the shower makes more noise than the last one. While he's setting up the background noise, Neil's skimming fingertips around the edges of the mirrored cabinet over the sink. The resulting frown is unconvinced rather than perturbed, but best not to take chances. They both start unbuttoning shirts, stripping down to underwear before they step into the shower, where the water thunders around them.

He's not watching. This isn't a show. This is business. Business with steam whispering over their skin as Neil flourishes a dry-erase marker at the glass partition of the shower, sketching out a quick sketch of the house footprint, and then filling in detail. They weren't precisely given a tour, but with keen observation and a good sense of perspective, it's amazing what you can pick up. Neil's stronger on the rooms on that side of the hallway; he takes over to fill in the other side, their fingers overlapping on the marker to definitely avoid the telltale clatter of dropping it.

As he sketches in detail—rooms observed, the slight niche around the door with the keypad and watching camera—Neil hovers at his shoulder. Leans closer, damp skin sticking, to point at the western end of the house. "This is elevated." Neil's voice is still barely a murmur, breath near his ear. "There's a waterfall down here. I'm betting anything secure is under solid ground." Tap-tap at the eastern end.

It makes sense, but they don't have a lot of time to chase false leads. "It might be up." He points the marker toward the ceiling; he has to turn, to speak quietly but clearly over the water. To bring his face close to Neil's.

Neil shakes his head. "Tropical storm zone. No significant weight off the ground if you can help it." Neil frowns; chews at bottom lip and the scope of this both. "Do we even have time to do this?"

Their gazes meet, from less than half a foot away. It's the worst possible time to be distracted by the fact that they're both mostly naked. He's glad of long practice at equanimity. "Time isn't a problem. Worst case, we make sure he leaves it here, and come back for it." Back or _back_ , as needed. It would be a narrow window, between the arrest and this place getting cleaned out, but they could thread it as fine as need be, if they had to. Better, of course, if they don't have to.

Neil swallows, jaw working. "Right. We take what chances we can tomorrow to fill this in. Then we make a call."

They both look at the house map sketch, committing it to memory, before Neil swipes a hand through it, and washes it all away.

*

The bed's bigger than some New York apartments, covered in a topper that's almost too soft to be comfortable. But it's been a hectic few days, and he never sleeps great while inverting, and somewhere in all that is how he winds up so deeply under that he doesn't wake up when they tip and tangle together in the middle of the bed. He only realises what's happened when he wakes up—more slowly than he has in months—to a gentle cacophony of tropical birdlife beyond the balcony, and a warm weight against his back, an arm slung around his waist.

Neil's face is buried in the back of his neck, breath puffing soft against his spine. Their legs are tangled, and the soft mattress topper cradles them here in an inescapable valley of comfort. There's no room for doubt that Neil's hard, morning wood pressed up against the curve of his ass.

Not alone in that state; arousal swims drowsily in his veins, skitters over his skin. Neil's knuckles are resting low on his stomach, so close it's almost impossible to think of anything other than tangling that hand in his own, shifting it the few pertinent inches. His hips tilt a little, just thinking about it, and the movement rubs him back against Neil.

A faint, sleep-born moan ghosts over his neck, and Neil shifts impossibly closer, the arm curling tighter around him. Neil's hips nudge against his, and he sinks teeth into his bottom lip to hold in a gasp.

Fuck but he _wants_ it. Wants Neil. Wants the lazy, intense handjob while Neil grinds against him; wants to get that out of the way so he can really focus when he rolls over and sucks Neil's cock until neither of them are coherent. Wants to take his time, take all damn day, take a _week_ to learn all of the things about Neil he'd never realised he wanted to know. The things he hadn't realised he wouldn't have a chance to know.

His hand closes over Neil's, fingers circling wrist, and Neil startles awake behind him with a confused little sound. The movement tugs against his grip; he lets go after a too-long moment. Neil shifts away, fighting the mattress to roll out of the valley their bodies have made. "Nghk," Neil says, and then, a little clearer, "Sorry. This bed is ridiculous."

More shifting, jostling the bed; he rolls away as well, fighting gravity uphill, until he can safely turn onto his back. Neil's sitting up, scrubbing both hands over face, through hair.

They're on the job. They're only _here_ because Neil saw this stupid situation and thought they were implying this was the solution. He can't be thinking like this.

He rolls away, to the edge of the bed. "I should go for a run, see if I can spot anything useful." But he waits, sat on the edge of the bed.

It's only when Neil says, thickly, "Right. Good idea," that he reaches for more clothes.

*

He runs along the beach until he finds a boathouse and jetty tucked around a headland; back through the half-tame jungle to the little airfield, where he confirms there's also a helicopter; through the gardens and around the house. There's a carefully overgrown door that looks like it leads into a bunker which heavily supports Neil's theory of underground secure areas beneath the eastern end of the house.

He doesn't spot any security besides the two big guys Denton brought with him on the flight yesterday. It makes him wonder exactly what sort of business Denton's doing out here. But that, if it doesn't get in his way, is immaterial.

Neil's already at breakfast when he walks in, sat with another three of the Hades strippers sprawled around one end of the table, laughing and lazy, casual but beautiful, like something out of a music video. Neil both fits in perfectly and not at all, like a panther cub among housecats. When he walks past, one of the girls nudges at Neil. There's a burst of giggles; Neil looks up with a lazy smile.

Denton appears beside him at the coffee machine. "Brad says you're into fishing. Come out on the boat with us today."

Which is what he gets for being too clever. "Not really what I had in mind for the day."

"I bet." Denton casts a look down the table, to the gaggle of strippers. Certainly better to encourage the view that he meant spending all day in bed with Neil, rather than casing the premises for surreptitious burglary. "Come out anyway. The boat's the place for business."

There's little room for argument in the way Denton says it, not while keeping this cover intact. "Business," he repeats. "Not fishing." After a sip of espresso—almost the closest to bliss he's been this morning—he adds, "I may have overstated my interest."

Denton gives a snort. "Leave it to the boys. Come on. More breakfast on board."

He follows out of the room, glancing back. Neil watches him go. At least one of them might manage something useful today.

*

The boat is a lot more about business than fishing. The trust-fund trio are enthusiastic with their angling, but it feels more like cover for the rest of it—careful conversations shepherded obliquely past any firm commitments by Denton's artful nudges. It's like some sort of society salon of a century ago, Denton playing hostess, making introductions. This is John Smith, he has an unorthodox skillset and excellent track record for effective troubleshooting. May I present Carmina Holstein, vice-president of logistics for a Balkan equipment manufacturer, who has troubles that need shooting, ho ho.

This is the business Denton is running, he realises as Ms Holstein carefully dances around outright commissioning a hit upon a border crossing supervisor who's been perniciously resistant to bribes. Denton isn't hiring muscle. Denton is _matchmaking_ , creating connections that might just be largely untraceable by conventional international law enforcement, especially if he's also acting as a transaction agent.

"I wish I could help you," he tells Ms Holstein, with a gentle and regretful smile, "but I've had some recent difficulties in that part of the world and I don't think I could operate at full capacity. I might have a colleague I could recommend, though. Do you have a card I could pass on, or should I—?"

Contact via Denton. Of course. A tidy little ecosystem is being sustained, a galaxy in orbit. He's starting to understand why Interpol make a special effort to get hold of this guy.

There is indeed more breakfast on the boat—a whole buffet, endlessly rotating as the day drags on. At one point he looks up from the mini-quiches, and the woman Neil suspected at first sight yesterday is watching him. He plucks the name out of his memory, and offers a smile. "Mrs Grantham."

"Polly, please." She has a little too much Continental Europe in her accent for such a British name, but that's hardly a crime. "You've been over here quite a while," she continues with a genial smile. "Is the company that lacking, or the food really that fascinating?"

He smiles right back. "These beef roll things are very good."

She selects one with manicured fingers, and nibbles delicately. Today she's wearing tailored slacks and a blue-striped blouse, cashmere sweater tied around her neck, everything screaming _yacht club_ , except the way that she cocks her hip, which whispers about the handgun she usually carries on it. One from his side of the speed-dating circle here? But the next thing she says is a supremely casual, "And are you buying or selling today, Mr Smith?"

It's a far bolder question than anyone else has asked. It sets a prickle at the back of his neck; a glance around the room shows that Denton has stepped outside, calling down to the fishermen while everyone else chats. He says, "I'm on holidays. Caspar and I go way back." Lifts an eyebrow and asks, "How do you know him?"

"Oh, similar sort of thing." She polishes off the bit of food, brushes crumbs off her fingers. "I've been a long-time follower of his. Excuse me."

She's gone again, just as Denton comes back inside. She's slick; he's suspicious.

Denton laughs at him when he asks if they have phone reception out here enough to call back to the house. They trade banter about whether he's smitten, or whether "Nigel" is just the sort who gets up to trouble without someone checking in. In the end he's invited to piggyback the boat's signal back to the house, which he has to assume means the message can and will be read by Denton.

It's fine. He can be circumspect. He can trust Neil to unpick the message. And while they're all out here, Neil can see what can be turned up from the things Polly Grantham has left behind.

*

They get back to the island in the late afternoon, and the Hades crew are quite literally frolicking in the pool. He has trouble keeping a straight face as Neil hauls himself out. "Really?" he asks quietly, when Neil gets close enough. 

Close enough and closer still—slick skin, dripping hair, and not a care for his clothes as Neil curls an arm around his waist. Soaks through his shirt in one shiver-inducing moment, Neil tilting lips close to his ear to whisper: "She's Interpol."

The chill of it cuts through the rising heat. He couldn't even say it's a surprise, but it changes far too much. She's seen their faces, he's _spoken_ with her. They absolutely can't be with Denton when the arrest happens. Can't be dragged in for questioning. This could be a bigger breach for Tenet than the one they've come to fix, except it wasn't, so they must fix it somehow. Maybe just getting out of here as fast as they can will be enough. But first they need to acquire what they came to find.

He lays his cheek against Neil's damp one to murmur, "Can we move tonight?"

"Everybody," Denton calls, from the far side of the pool.

All Neil manages is a shake of his head and a quick, "Night isn't good," before they're all being ushered inside. Neil loiters with the other Hades crew to get dry and dressed—both a question of degree—but he's hustled along with the others. This enforced group socialising is getting downright irritating.

Pre-dinner drinks are held in a room painted warm by the setting sun, with entertainment by the victorious fishermen recounting their glory. He takes a low armchair in the far corner, and Neil sits in front of him, shouldering in between his knees, curling an arm around one calf, propping the other elbow on one of his knees. The curl of fingers around his ankle is unutterably distracting, the press of thumb just behind the bone, the warmth of the grip—it takes him far too long to realise that Neil's holding a phone, one thumb sliding over the letters, and _what_ is being written is entirely visible to him.

 _D sleeps_ ⬇, Neil writes, and he shifts to see better, to let Neil settle more comfortably between his thighs, to lean forward a little and comb his fingers through Neil's damp hair. _Locks down entirely onight. Bus deals signed there tho. Could we??_

Neil glances up at the storytelling fishermen, waiting thumb hovering. It's a good question—could they gain access to the lower level by ostensibly signing up to a business deal? He can pursue one tonight, go back to Holstein perhaps, put the finishing touches on it tomorrow morning, but there's no reason for _Nigel_ to be involved. So either he's tackling it all alone, or he's doing the recon and they're waiting even longer to go back again, and all the while Polly Grantham—or whatever her name really is—will be watching.

He leans forward a little more, close enough to speak under the rest of the room's noise. "Later than I'd like. Could you get us in tonight?"

Neil hesitates, jaw flexing with thought, almost literally chewing it over. He doesn't rush it—leans back again, stroking fingers through Neil's hair. That grip tightens on his ankle. _need time to crack 🚪_ , the thumb spells out on the phone screen. _And 👀 if we're gone too long._

Someone would come looking for them. All this _togetherness_. Denton herding them like sheep, or debutantes. Except none of them were virginal. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He leans forward again, to whisper in Neil's ear, "Not if they think they know exactly why we aren't there." And just in case that wasn't clear enough, he turns and catches the lobe of Neil's ear between his teeth.

Neil's breath catches, neck tilts. He runs a thumb down the stretched tendon, along Neil's collarbone. Neil shifts between his knees, hooking the other hand—with now-dark phone—beneath his thigh to tug him forward until Neil's just about draped against his front. Just about, but not quite, and he wonders if it would be a little _too_ much to drag Neil up, onto the chair, into his lap. Settles for smoothing a hand down Neil's chest, dipping fingers beneath the shirt's low-buttoned collar, tangling his other hand more obviously in Neil's hair.

"Let's go into dinner," Denton suggests, in a lull in the fishing story.

People start to shift. He opens his mouth, but isn't quick enough. "Actually, I'm not all that hungry." Neil's voice is almost languid, accent stretched. "We might just—retire." In unnecessary emphasis, Neil tilts against his arm, almost a nuzzle.

A mess of comments and catcalls from the rest of them. All he has to do is exude satisfaction, like he's the cat about to have the cream three different ways. When Denton suggests food can be sent up to them, he just states: "Leave it outside the door."

They hold hands as everyone files out of the room; they turn up the corridor, rather than down. One of the Hades girls calls, "Have fuuun!" after them. Neil's utterly faux-embarrassed head duck—that doesn't at all conceal a smirk—is a masterpiece of performance. Neil tugs him close by their entwined fingers, and he takes the hint, makes their pace laggardly with extraneous contact, until the hall behind them is empty.

The door down to the lower level is in a shallow alcove, just enough to be discreet but not enough to provide any cover to someone trying to get in illicitly. There's also a camera pointed at it, and he doesn't know if it's monitored—who by?—but it's still a risk. But when Neil leans back against the door, hauls him close by a fistful of shirtfront, his shoulders will block the line from camera to Neil's fingers dancing speculatively over the keypad.

"Clever," he murmurs, in the scant space between them.

Neil's lips curve in a smile. "Flattery will get you everywhere. Now act like you're too overcome with lust to make it to our room."

He crowds closer, to block the fact that Neil's head is turned away, watching the keypad and attempted codes, _listening_ for all he knows. Neil showed up to Tenet with already honed skills in getting the closed to open, and has only honed them further since.

"If we make it in," Neil whispers, lips barely moving, "do we have an exit from the island?"

"You get us in," he whispers back. "Let me worry about out." From the repeated double-beep fail-code, Neil's trying many variations on a common theme. Something that might take time indeed. "Are too many fails in a row going to trip an alarm?" he asks.

"If they do we'll just—" is as far as Neil gets before there's the sharp sound of a footfall down the hall. Neil draws a short breath, and says, "Kiss me."

He is already, chasing the last word back between Neil's lips. This is not the time for preamble; he sweeps straight into Neil's open mouth, nudges their bodies together from groin to chest, wraps a hand beneath the thigh of the leg that Neil's lifted to hook heel around the back of his knee.

Behind him, a booming trust-fund baritone bellows, "Get a room!" He lets go of Neil long enough to flip the bird back down the corridor, and part of his brain assesses the lessening sound of laughter and footsteps, until he judges that it's safe.

Neil turns away from the kiss, mouth smearing, hand back on the keypad. But when he starts to lean back, Neil's other hand grips tight at the small of his back, keeps him close. "The camera," Neil gasps.

It's a good point. If the camera _is_ monitored, they can't just _stop_. This is their plausible deniability. If Neil _can't_ get the door open with whatever gleaned information is informing this attempt, then they can still try again. Go back to the room and get more serious gear, perhaps.

So he stays where he is, pressed far too close against Neil, whose hips shift beneath his. Neither of them is exactly unaffected by this situation. The evening's out of control already, and neither of them would _be_ here, would be in a job that put them in this sort of situation, if that weren't something that got the blood running. 

He drags his mouth down, and the pulse is hammering in Neil's throat. He licks over it. Scrapes his teeth ever so faintly. Neil's little whine is nearly swallowed by the single-beep chime of the correct code.

The door snicks open, and falls inward under their combined weight. Neil's already clinging to him; they stagger inside, and he's shutting the door—careful not to slam—while they're still disentangling. Neil tugs his shirt straight, already heading down the bland white concrete steps on silent feet. Time matters now.

He hurries to catch up, taps at Neil's elbow before they reach the corner, and jerks his head. If that camera _is_ monitored, the security room is likely down here; best he goes first, to deal with whatever—whoever—might be coming.

But there's only an empty corridor, frosted glass panels along one side, letting into three rooms. A lounge with a massive television, and then an office. Neil slides into that one, looking around for the safe. He goes to check the third—a bedroom, immaculate and impersonal, scattered over with Denton's things. No one in there either, or the ensuite attached.

On his way back, he pauses at the security door at the far end of the corridor. Recalls the map of the house Neil drew on the shower wall, turns it around in his head. He's pretty sure this is the door he saw from the outside, on his run.

Back in the office, Neil looks up from the open wall cabinet with a grin. "Same model as Hades." Types in a code with a nonchalant thumb, and the safe springs open.

The inside is packed with papers, boxes, document cases, sealed envelopes, and stacks of cash in various currencies. Neil hauls out a handful of files and starts thumbing through them. "People similar to those upstairs," is the kneejerk report, but the scan continues. They've drummed a little thoroughness in through training, at least.

He rifles through the boxes in the bottom shelf of the safe. There's a handgun in a display case, too old for him to know its specifics or workings, but probably worth a lot. There's a sparkling necklace in another case that makes Neil glance up from the documents and whistle. There's an envelope that by heft and stiffness holds bonds.

Beneath it, there's a gold bar.

His heart stops for a moment; the sound of Neil's fingers flipping through files is discordantly loud. He knows this gold bar. He's seen a man bludgeoned with it, or one very like it. How did _Caspar Denton_ get it?

The sound of paper stills. "What's wrong?" Neil asks.

He reaches into the safe, holding his breath, hoping he's wrong, hoping it's just a coincidence. Knows it isn't, even before the gold bar leaves its rest with a strange reversed thud, flips up into his grip. It's almost as heavy as the implications of its presence here.

"Fuck," Neil spits. Slams the files back into their pile. "We have to get out of here."

*

They go out the other door, into the gardens, and circle around to beneath the balcony to their room. Neil's scathing about the ease of the climb, and between the spreading nearby tree and the balcony supports, goes up like a monkey. _He's_ the one carrying a bloody gold bar while he climbs, but he makes it up almost as quickly, if less gracefully. Neil's already packing things up, in as close to total silence as they can manage. Any moment, he expects to hear shouts, or footsteps and a knock at the door, but they don't go until they've got everything they came with.

There's nothing they can do about Polly Grantham having seen their faces, but at least they can not leave behind any tangible objects she and hers might be able to trace back to a Tenet supplier.

They go back over the balcony and into the garden. He nudges Neil in the direction of the jetty and boathouse. Further away from the house, the night is coming alive with insect noises. "What about Denton?" Neil asks as they go. "What about the gold? Shouldn't we find out what he knows?"

He shakes his head—useless in the dark—and nudges Neil in the small of the back, the way he's been doing every time their pace slows. Running would be unwise, when it's this dark, but they need to keep moving. "It doesn't matter. He's dead in five days."

Silence for a moment, and then Neil asks, "Is that us?"

He hadn't thought it was. Now he's not sure. "It's not on my return itinerary." It's the best he can offer.

The fishing boat is tied up at the jetty, but it's too complicated for just the two of them. There's a lighter speedboat in the shadows on the other side, quick and easy, much better. He takes it straight out from the beach, running slow and quiet and dark, while Neil crouches with a torch between his teeth, going through their luggage, culling out the essentials, making sure nothing's picked up a tracker or other nuisance. The rest—any and everything to do with Nigel from Hades, and John Smith—goes over the side, with all the usual tricks to help it sink without a trace.

Then he turns the nose of the boat to the next nearest land mass, turns on the safety lights, opens the throttle. The night whips around them. When he turns to speak to Neil, he has to nearly shout. "How did you know she was Interpol?"

"She was being awfully respectful with Armand," Neil shouts back.

"Her special friend?"

"Yeah." Before he can note that respect isn't necessarily a hallmark of international law enforcement, Neil adds, "So he went through her stuff while you were all out fishing. Came to me in a tizzy about it. Thought she was there to shut us down as trafficked sex-workers."

That's how close they came to fucking up that way. Except was it ever _close_? It hadn't happened—they hadn't been caught, Tenet hadn't been compromised. What's happened has happened.

He doesn't think it's ever going to sit comfortably.

"This boat's going to be a bit fucking conspicuous," Neil points out.

He grins into the wind. "Hope you weren't planning on getting any sleep tonight."

Neil laughs. "Why would I do a thing like that?"

*

By dawn, they're a short hike, a bus ride, and a change of clothes away from the boat. The private island was off a beautiful stretch of coast, which means there are plenty of tourists to blend in with once they find their way down to a populated area. It's more enthusiastic than exclusive, and the hotel they're pointed to is a far cry from five-star, but no one's complaining. Just in case, he sends Neil—with hair trapped under a cheap baseball cap—to check in, toting a credit card and passport in a completely different name. Neil comes back with an actual physical room key—who knew they still did those any more?

"Last room," Neil says, and lifts an eyebrow.

He should seize this chance. They should split up anyway, just in case anyone _does_ come looking. Far less conspicuous apart than together. But something in the steadiness of Neil's gaze, the tilt of that eyebrow, sets a hum in his bones. And he just says, "Glad you got it, if this is the best place in town."

"Don't think I care," Neil says, as they climb the stairs. "As long as there's a shower."

"Some people are so fastidious." He smiles, and wider when Neil shoots him a sharp look.

"Some people," Neil returns, always more British when he's in a snit, "got hauled straight from the pool to run a bloody smash and grab on the fly. And that was before the hike over the ridge."

"Fine." He has to give the door to their room a bit of a shove to get it open. Doesn't mind at all. "You get first crack at the shower. Off you go."

Neil wastes no time, hauling shirt off on the way to the bathroom. The water's running by the time he's figured out how to get the window open, get some fresh air in.

The room's not terrible. Perfectly comfortable. There was a time this was the best sort of accommodation he could reasonably expect. Two beds, actually, and both of them big enough. He sits on the further one, and shucks shoes and belt and his own tacky hat. Precious little to unpack. When they get the bus tomorrow to an actual city, they can buy back some of what they tipped into the ocean. Easy come, easy go.

He flips through the channels on the television, less looking for news (certainly not expecting to see _them_ ) and more letting it wash over him. Everything's starting to jangle, now that he's relaxing out of the tight-wound focus of the job. His foot is inclined to tap, his fingers to drum.

The water shuts off, and bare seconds later Neil comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a white towel wrapped around slim hips. Goes straight to the minibar, all a-clank with little bottles.

He switches off the television. "Any whiskey in there?"

Neil looks over a bare and still-damp shoulder, an eyebrow going up. "So you _do_ drink after all. Scuttlebutt had you a recovering alcoholic." Makes another grab from the minibar, and turns around holding out two little bottles of liquor.

He opens his mouth, nearly points out that he narrowly avoided arrest for public drunkenness once with Yolanda—another time like this, mission done, letting off steam—and then he realises that Neil's never met Yolanda, who hasn't even been recruited yet. Instead, he just says, "Thanks," and takes the whiskey.

Neil sits on the other bed, slouching, knees spread. This hotel isn't generous with its towels, and while he's seen Neil wearing less, this is all the more distracting for not being a performance. The realness of Neil's nakedness rushes the blood in his veins. But he feels guilty for ogling. Even more so when Neil's apparently oblivious, too busy whisking the lid off the first miniature bottle of vodka.

"I'm sorry." He only realises he's said the words out loud when Neil's eyebrows go up over the lifted vodka. He stills with his own hands around the whiskey, and says the rest of it, since apparently he's starting this. "I'm sorry about this whole job. It shouldn't have been like this. You shouldn't have had to do any of this. And I'm sorry if I've made it less comfortable. There are no—expectations." He's absolutely not blushing; this is too important. "We ask too much of you, anyway. All of you."

They sit there a moment, until Neil asks, "Are you going to drink that, or just fondle it?" So he breaks the seal, takes a sip as Neil continues, "You're never quite what I expect."

He knows the feeling. The whiskey is very ordinary, but the wincing bite is all he needs right now. He glances up; Neil's watching him, elbows on knees, eyes steady beneath the fall of damp hair. "Well, life is full of surprises." Even more so since his eyes closed on one reality, and opened on another.

Neil hums consideringly, and swigs against from the vodka. "You don't have to do all this alone, you know."

"What?"

A corner of Neil's mouth twitches upwards. "Whatever you're aiming us at. Whatever this is _for_. The cold temporal war, yes, but… We chose this too. We choose this." A moment, and then: "I choose this."

Neil's choices will be the opposite of the death of him. His mouth is too dry to speak; he has to swallow hard before he can say, "It's not that simple."

"How could it be?" Neil's smile is genuine now; swigs at the vodka again. "But whatever's coming, whatever you know—don't tell me." He wasn't going to, but Neil fixes him with a look. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. I'm not going to regret any of this. How could I? It's amazing."

There's a lump in his throat. Everything jangling, with post-job adrenaline. Blame it on that. He opens his mouth to say—who knows what.

Doesn't matter, because Neil cuts him off. "Ah. No. Drink your whiskey or you'll fall behind." Waggles the empty mini-vodka. "And remember, you're not the only one making choices. So while I appreciate your pretty apology..."

A pause, and Neil's smile twists into that smirk—he saw it on stage, and now it hits his stomach along with the slug of whiskey, like a hook baited with lust.

Neil smirks, and says, "If the job had demanded it, I actually wouldn't have considered sucking your cock that great an imposition."

He drains the rest of the whiskey—barely two mouthfuls that claw down his throat and wrap heat around his spine. Neil doesn't break eye contact, not until he licks his lips, and watching that twitch of Neil's attention is nearly as arousing as the words, as that smirk, as the splay of Neil's towel-draped knees. They're both overspilling with energy, and this wouldn't be the worst way of grounding. The only damage they can do is to themselves. That might be bad enough.

He doesn't trust his own decisions. So many things he wishes Neil had told him. But he understands—now more than ever—why he didn't. What's happened has happened, but sometimes the why and the how matters just as much as the what.

Neil—here and now, _this_ Neil—smiles, open and beautiful, like a lock has clicked open beneath careful manipulation, and slides off the bed. But he's moving too, catches Neil by the arm before knees hit carpet. Neil blinks up at him, genuinely confused. "Don't you—?"

"Oh, I do." He does want it, very much so. The very idea—Neil settling between his parted knees, Neil's deft fingers unfastening his trousers, Neil's lips closing over the head of his cock—has him most of the way to hard already. But he urges Neil up, pulls him closer, until he has a lapful of warm skin and muscle, the towel stretching and slipping, and says, "I want this more."

They're mouth to mouth in an instant, teeth and tongues and hot breath, a slippery tangle of want. Neil clutches at his head, fingers digging insistent into the back of his neck, holding tight like there's a chance he could be dragged away. Like he wouldn't fight to stay right here. He's wanted to kiss Neil like this since that first moment on stage. Wanted it, he suspects, for far longer than he's consciously known.

Neil makes that little whining sound, and this time he can chase it properly, like the tang of vodka over Neil's tongue. He can run palms down Neil's back, tug them closer together. Leave one hand tucked warm and insistent in the small of Neil's back while the other keeps going, trailing over cheap towelling to knee. Dipping fingertips back underneath, skimming up the outside of his bare thigh.

Neil's gasp is an opportunity; he bites at Neil's jaw, gilded with stubble. Bends Neil back with gentle insistence until he can flick one nipple with his tongue, then the other. A moan, and Neil shifts on his lap. There's blessed little friction for anyone, in this position, but for now, the tease is a perfect shimmer, dancing over the wolf still prowling in his veins.

Neil hauls him back up, demanding hands and more demanding kisses. Wraps around him, holds him still, plunders his mouth. He smooths his palm over Neil's thigh, nudges his thumb into the crease of hip. The towel scratches over his knuckles, and the muscle twitches as Neil tries to get closer. Neil shifts again, hips tilting and restless, and he chuckles, strokes his fingers over skin, so close and yet so far.

Neil drags away from the kiss, messy and growling, "I swear to God, if you don't touch me right the fuck now I—"

He bats the towel aside, wraps his hand around Neil's cock, and the rest disappears into a moan. Neil's head knocks back, hips canting forward, fingers biting into his shoulders. It's more beautiful than the stage act ever was—no glitter, no artifice, just abandoned to sensation. He strokes Neil's cock with a slow, insinuating rhythm. Steadies them both—braced feet and his other hand on Neil's back—as they settle into it, Neil's hips eager.

"Come here," he whispers, in the flushed space between them. Neil curls forward with a throaty moan, tilting their foreheads together.

Breath mingles, lips brushing blind against his skin, until he turns and makes the kiss happen, slipping and sliding. Neil gives a little laugh, breathless and bright. "I had—a plan."

The rhythm's getting frantic now. He murmurs, "Next time," and pulls Neil back into a kiss. Adds a little twist to his stroke, and swallows Neil's moan, holding tight as Neil rocks on his lap, riding out the orgasm.

He wants to savour every gasp and twitch and press of fingers into his shoulders. Enjoy Neil sighing, "I've been waiting days for that."

But he's also so hard he can barely think straight. Neil settles back on his lap at a different angle, and suddenly there's friction—not enough, and not quite right, but he's still tilting up by instinct, holding Neil's hips still with too-tight hands.

Neil just laughs, grabs his shoulders to hold steady. "Oh hello." It's nearly a purr, playful, and yet so purely pleased that he's turning blind to kiss Neil again. Neil takes in all his urgency, lets him tangle fingers in hair, swallows his groan when Neil shifts and gets a hand down between them, curved around him through the trousers he still, stupidly, has on.

Clever hands make short work of them, even as Neil is pushing him back, laying him flat on the bed, whispering against his flushed skin: "Let me. Let me look after you."

He's _let_ Neil do far too much already. "Anything."

He thinks he probably cries out as Neil's mouth engulfs him. He doesn't care. He still has his hand tangled in Neil's hair; makes himself relax his grip. Pries his eyes open so he can look down— _see_ this. See Neil looking back at him, eyes wicked and warm all at once. This Neil. His Neil, here and now. He trails fingers over the hollow of Neil's cheek as he's sucked down. "Fuck, that feels good."

Neil hums, and he just about sees stars.

He doesn't last long. He's lasted all week. He's lasted all this time, not even knowing this was possible.

As the orgasm sends its last sated twitches through his limbs, Neil crawls up the bed; he reaches and grabs and pulls. Neil settles, tangled and beside and half atop him. They kiss long and slow and shifting toward languor.

"Thank you," he mutters into Neil's mouth, again and again, punctuated by kisses.

Neil laughs—against him, with him—and says, "Thank _you_."

*

They sleep for a bit, finally, sprawled out sideways across the bed; he wakes when Neil brushes past his outflung leg, heading for the bathroom again. He's sticky and sweat-spangled in the clinging, sultry heat of late afternoon. Sunset floods the room, briefly gilds Neil's back before the bathroom door is nudged shut.

The snick of the latch feels like more than just one door closing. This—this patch of restless energy generated by unwise choices, this whole wildly unorthodox option—is over.

He rolls up to sitting on the foot of the bed. Rubs both hands over his face. The jangle has gone. Now he just feels empty. These things happen. It isn't a problem. It can even be part of the basis of working trust.

It's better this way, he tells himself. He knows how this will end, after all. Best not to—

In the bathroom, the toilet flushes. A moment later, the shower starts. A moment after that, the door cracks open again, a steadying hand catching it at half-open, before withdrawing. Leaving it like that.

He makes himself breathe. He's not empty now. There's a restless energy clutching at him, desperate to push that door further open, to step inside. And yet he's held in place by an equally desperate trepidation.

Hadn't he just been thinking that it was better not? He knows how this will end. He's already let Neil go the once, and he barely knew him. The more he knows, the more he cares, the more he claims Neil as his...

The more it's going to hurt. The more he's afraid he just won't be able to. That this will be the one time he simply can't.

He licks his lips. Tastes the ghost of whiskey past. Tastes Neil. Tastes himself.

Admit it: it's already going to hurt. It _has_ hurt, will never hurt less. Maybe he already can't do it again.

Maybe—he realises—it won't matter. Maybe he won't get a choice. Maybe he won't be there to see it.

The possibility carves through him, like opening the door on a tomb. Fresh air blasting away the stultified stasis of death. He takes a deep breath in, and it feels like the first in a long time. He finds himself standing without consciously willing it so.

Maybe not. Maybe he _will_ have to let Neil go again. But whatever comes then, _right now_ he is alive, and so is Neil. They are here. They have seven months of return journey through time already trodden, at the very least. They are alive. And they should live. Or rather—given everything that has happened in the last few days, given the vigour with which Neil has thrown himself into every ridiculous aspect of this entire job… He smiles, just thinking about it. About Neil.

 _He_ should live. Enjoy this, while he can. He knows, after all, how it will end. But he can still find out how it goes between now and then.

He raps his knuckles gently against the bathroom door, part pushing it open, part knocking. Waits on the threshold, like he needs to be invited in.

In the shower, Neil's been humming—he recognises the tune, though he's been used to hearing it with more braying trumpets and sly bass. Now Neil breaks off, and ducks out, sweeping wet hair out of eyes.

When Neil sees him, there's that smile again. The one that's genuine, and guileless, and pleased to see him.

"Come on in," Neil says. "The water's fine."

So he does.


End file.
